I left New York City on March 10th, a day after my university informed all its students that classes were moving online and advised us to leave as soon as possible. At that point, New York City had 32 confirmed cases of COVID-19.

While I stood on the MetroNorth platform waiting for a train to Grand Central with my suitcase next to me, a woman over the loudspeaker reminded us to wash our hands regularly. The elderly man across from me on the train wore gloves. Grand Central was less crowded than usual, and so was Penn Station when I arrived there. My train back to Ohio was scattered with other students also returning home early.

At the time, these changes were a little shocking to me. This virus was changing the city, although at the time only in small ways.

Now, of course, New York has become the epicenter of the outbreak in the United States. The state has over 100,000 confirmed cases of coronavirus, with over 63,000 of those in the city itself. Roughly half of all COVID-19 deaths in the US have been in New York State, a quarter of them in New York City. Those changes I found so startling are nothing compared to what people in the city are now living with.

Back in Ohio, I've spent a lot of time thinking about New York.

My friends who live in or around the city, their families, my professors, the people at a nursing home I visited in Queens, that elderly man who sat across from me on the train nearly a month ago - I've been doing a lot of worrying about them. Hoping they'll stay safe, in some cases wondering if they're okay.

It's tough to watch a place that you care about, full of people you care about, go through something so difficult and scary. Hospitals are becoming overwhelmed. Mobile morgues and field hospitals are being set up. There's a severe shortage of ventilators with insufficient support from the federal government in acquiring them. My school emailed students yesterday to let us know that they've discussed using residence halls as additional housing for emergency personnel with the state, although that's not yet necessary.

A month ago, I thought extra announcements and people wearing gloves was scary. Now it's possible my belongings may have to be packed up to give desperately needed emergency services a place to stay. It's hardly a novel take to say that this whole situation feels unreal, but it does.

But of course, this isn't about me. I'm five hundred miles away, and they could throw my stuff out for all I care if someone who is saving lives needs my room. I'm just worried for my friends and for the city that I've had the privilege of living in, albeit only for a short time.

Hang in there, New York. We're all praying for you.